They Were Golden
by lucreziatargaryenn
Summary: They had faced the immortals of legend together, these two insignificant beings.


She didn't like not being in control. She was used to solving everything she was faced with, using logic and reason to overcome anything that dared prove to be an obstacle to her. She liked to smell her books before she opened them, but hated the idea of keeping books pristine and unbent, untouched. Books were meant to be loved, consumed, devoured. And that was exactly what she could be found doing every evening at 8pm near the fire. She liked her routines.

He didn't think he had ever been in control of his life. He went with the flow, thinking on the spot and more often than not, ending up in sticky situations where he needed to do more thinking on the spot. He liked the colour blue. Not a sea blue like most people irritatingly assumed, but a deep, rich blue the colour of the night sky. The colour of Tanzanite. He couldn't remember the last time he had read a book, but he could recall every move made by an opponent in a sword fight, going over it later when he trained with Riptide.

She was winter all over, icy blonde hair that fell around her pale face, and large blue eyes that darkened when she was angry. But she was always so warm when he buried his head in her neck, or snaked an arm around her waist.

He was summer, there was no doubt about it. The sooty black hair, tanned skin and eyes greener than grass; he was all sunshine and open fields, shouts of laughter and rippling waves. But his feet were always cold when they slept with their legs tangled together.

She would never, ever say it, but she hated that all she was given from Athena was her wisdom. She felt useless while the people around her controlled elements and changed form, demigods that had actual powers as opposed to plain old sharp wit. During a particularly gruelling quest, her companions had formed an informal ring around her while battling an army of hellhounds and _she hated it she hated it she hated it_. She felt weak as she watched Percy stab and lunge, flitting around her like an enraged moth, brandishing his sword and snarling at the beasts for all he was worth. She didn't even realise how much he ached with the knowledge that she was vulnerable, that she could so easily be taken away from him. Annabeth was prideful, and stubborn, but as she watched this beautiful boy protect her, she felt humbled, and honoured, and a whole mixture of other things that spurred her into action as she unsheathed her dagger and stood by him. Annabeth was prideful, and stubborn, but she was working on it, for him.

He had never felt smaller than when he had seen her get thrown across a room by a Fury, like a ragdoll, torn and bleeding. He had been trapped under the carcass of a monster twice his size at the time, and had never forgotten that instant of pure, unadulterated fear that shot through him at the sight of her body just lying there. His powers were immense, he could control the oceans for gods sake, he was the son of _freakin' Poseidon_, but this girl was his life too, and she made him feel big and small and powerful and weak all at the same time. Percy was reckless; he would dive into the pits of Tartarus to save her without thinking twice, screw the consequences, screw the fact that she would hate him for it long after they had died and passed on. Percy was reckless, but he was working on it, for her.

She was tidy.

So was he.

She loved to dance.

He hated it but liked to watch her.

She just about reached his chin level.

He had to bend down to kiss her smiling lips.

She called him Seaweed Brain.

He called her Wise Girl.

And they were in love.

But they were also still children, forced to grow up quicker than was fair and thrust into a war their parents forged long before they were born. They were half divinity, half beautifully human, and achingly small in the grand scheme of things. But in the warmth of Cabin 12, curled up near the fire they had built in the midst of Poseidon's shrine, they were greater than the gods. They were Percy Jackson and Annabeth Chase, a son of Poseidon and a daughter of Athena, a boy and a girl who had welded their destinies together. They had borne the weight of the sky together, a streak of grey in their hair remaining as a reminder; they had faced the immortals of legends together, these two insignificant beings. They were made of dust and dreams and red, red blood, but as they curled up together in Cabin 3, oblivious to the outside world, they were golden.


End file.
